Death by Sirius
by ms metaphor
Summary: A neardeath experience, or a midnight encounter with Hogwart’s most infamous, and infuriating, playboy? For Lily Evans, it’s a little bit of both. [SiriusLily, Seventh Year, Oneshot]


**Death by Sirius**

by ms. metaphor

**Rating:** light PG-13

**Pairing: **Sirius/Lily, mention of James/Lily

**Genre:** Romance

**Summary:** A near-death experience, or a midnight encounter with Hogwart's most infamous, and infuriating, playboy? For Lily Evans, it's a little bit of both. SiriusLily, Seventh Year, Oneshot

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sirius or Lily. They belong to J. K. Rowling, along with everything else of Harry Potter cannon.

**Author's Note:** This is something a big lighter than my usual stuff—angst is more my thing. Still, Lily amuses me in this fic. She's in quite the snit…

* * *

Around midnight, Lily slips out of the library, walking silently along a stone corridor towards Gryffindor tower. Every fifteen feet, there's a shuddering torch to light the way, but she does her best to stay in the shadows. Chances are if she gets caught, she won't incur a detention or even a loss of house points—one of the lovely perks of being Head Girl. But, James would never let her forget it. "Tut tut, Evans. Keep this rule-breaking up and pretty soon you'll be a marauder," is what he'd say.

Rounding a corner, she clumsily shifts the heavy pile of books cradled in her right arm. And, unexpectedly, hits something solid. "_Ow_!"

Her vision goes blurry, and she rubs the end of her nose. Tears. It hurts, _badly_, because whatever is she just hit is quite unyielding. Not to mention…

Quite invisible.

She stares at the air in front of her. Nope. Nothing. Only blank spacing stretching a few yards to the next stone wall as the hallway turns westerly. She shrugs inwardly and starts walking again. After all, who knows what goes on in these passages. Could've been Peeves or-or… well, this being Hogwarts, any number of things.

But—a sound.

She freezes, spins around, and marches back. She could swear that was shuffling and a rustle of clothing.

She purses her lips. "Whoever you are, show yourself!" Silence. "This is the head girl. Show yourself or I'll be forced to speak to Dumbledore!" Setting her books down, she crosses her arms against her chest and waits. "I know you're still there, and you daren't move until I leave because I'll hear you. And trust me, I'm a very patient girl."

And there, more rustling to her right. The air shimmers as with a mirage unfolding or the motion of transparent cloth. A head, shoulders, a chest—broad and strong, that's what she must've have run into—followed by legs and feet.

The dark form says, "I know, and I can't _stand_ waiting. Impatience is my virtue—or at least, that's what Prongs always says."

"Sirius Black!" She rolls her eyes. "Why am I not surprised? Detention. And twenty points—"

"Hold your bloody thestrals!" He scrambles to shove something—is that an invisibility cloak?—into his shoulder bag. "You can't just take away points like that. It's—it's traitorous, two-timing, disloyal, unfaithful… downright adulterous! Adulterous to your own house."

"Black, you need to learn when to shut up."

"Who? me?" he says, and flicks a lazy black strand from his eyes. She fights the urge to roll her eyes again; she really can't understand what everyone sees in Sirius Black. "You haven't even asked me why I'm out of bed at"—he glances at his watch, which, knowing the Blacks, is probably a Rolex—"a quarter past one."

The horrible thing is that he's right. She should ask before capriciously deducting point. But that's no fun, she whines to herself, because with spending so much time around James, she never gets the chance to give Sirius Black what he deserves—which is sometimes a big, fat Unforgivable.

"Fine." Grits her teeth. "Why are you out of bed." And no, it's not a question. 

He grins beatifically. "But, Miss Evans, why are _you_ slinking about at such a late hour?"

Merlin, she's NOT in the mood for this. "I believe I asked you first."

He leans in closer, merely a few inches from her face. "Yes, but I'm not the one trying to take away house points, Benedict."

"I didn't know you knew anything about American history," she says, frowning slightly.

"I know a little bit about everything."

That she can believe. Somehow, despite all long hours in the library—such as tonight—and sleepless nights, he's still ahead of her in nearly all their classes. He's first in everything but Charms, in which she leads, and Potion, in which he comes second after Severus Snape. And while she's usually not a violent person, just thinking about it makes her want to throttle him. She clamps down on the petty urge to kick him in the shins. It's not fair. He doesn't deserve to be brilliant.

"So," he repeats, "what you doing up?"

She sniffs haughtily. "Nothing that concerns you."

"I see. Coming to my bed, are you? Don't worry, I won't tell James. It'll be our little secret."

A small screech of rage, and she gives in to that urge to punt him in the shins.

"Ouch! Bloody hell, woman, I have sensitive ankles! Besides, Filch'll turn up if you keep shrieking like a banshee, and we certainly don't want that."

"Sirius Black, don't _ever_ insinuate that I would sleep with _you._"

And there it is: that God-awful smirk. She _hates _that smirk. She _loathes_ that smirk. She _detests_ it. She _despises_ it. She _abhors_—

_But he does have rather nice eyes,_ a treacherous, little voice whispers. _Such a lovely grey. Like a winter storm._

No.

Absolutely not. She's repulsed by—

But he interrupts her dissertation on loathing. "No, Lily love, I don't need to insinuate. With you, I just say exactly what I want. And…" The grey eyes are narrowing and sparking. "You like it."

"Oh, Merlin. You flirt like a veela."

"Maybe so, but it's working. And anyway, it's got to be refreshing. I mean, James can't flirt—not with you, anyway. He just beats around the bush and never says anything, while any fool can see he's hopelessly in love with you. And now that you've learned to actually tolerate him, all he's got left to do is ask you out on a Hogsmeade weekend, or something to that effect. But has he? No. Still he drools over you and does nothing. Don't get me wrong, he's a terrific mate and a first-rate marauder, but if I was the bird he was after, I'd be sick of all this beating around the bush. I say, why beat around it when you can just beat the bush?"

He has a good point, though it galls Lily to admit it, even to herself. James has been downright frustrating lately. He turns to her at random moments, freezes, goes tomato-red in the face, and positively chokes on his own tongue. It's actually sort of disgusting. Of course, when he can form a sentence, he's quite nice and intelligent and funny. But lately, those moments have been too far and few between.

"I'm right, aren't I? Ha! I don't even need to ask. Of course I'm right." Sirius watches her face with those quick eyes.

"Oh—shut up!" she snaps, jerking from her reverie. "And quit toying with me. You're horrible, you know that? Is this what you do to all girls? Is this some sort of sport for you? See how many 'birds' you can entice from their boyfriends? See how many you can make fools of as they fall all over themselves, mooning over you?"

"Oh! You wound me, my lady! A dagger straight through my true and noble heart!" He theatrically wilts against the wall, pressing a nonexistent dagger into his chest, and sighs, that terrible piece of hair falling forward again. "Never would I do such a thing, nor ever to such a girl as yourself."

"How very Shakespearean of you. How very… coy."

And she wonders, secretly, what his hair would feel like tangled in her fingers. It's so shiny and thick and lays just right—mostly straight but with a tad bit of wave. So unlike James' chaotic, wiry mop.

"I am black, and have not those soft parts of conversation."

"Is that so? I wonder if James would agree."

Lily spots twitch in his jaw, a sure sign he's taking the bait. "Of course he would. He thinks I'm spectacular."

What is spectacular, she wants to say, is his flagrant display of egoism. But instead, she opts for a subtler riposte. She says, "Oh, but does he know that, even now, a black ram tops his ewe."

He goes perfectly still. His mouth is a hard, livid line, his shoulders square and taut. "That's what you think?"

"I think you're—you're a traitor to your friend. How better to stab him in the back that to chat up his girl? Maybe he wouldn't think you're so spectacular if he knew what a terrible friend you are." And she lifts her chin triumphantly. It's enormously satisfying to see that her barb hit home.

"So you think I'm a traitor?" His voice is perilously quiet—the dying wind before a violent gale. "So you think I'm a terrible friend? Would you like to know where I was tonight?"

She nods, not quite trusting her own voice.

"I was in the infirmary. With Moo—Remus. Because Snivellus Snape—that filthy, blinkered, mangy son-of-a-bitch you're always defending—thought it would be funny to slip one of his horrid, little concoctions into Remus' tea this morning. And do you know what it did? It gave him nightmares. Or, is giving him nightmares. I was reading to him, to keep him awake, because if he falls asleep, he wakes up screaming, and there's nothing Pomfrey can do for him. The potion has to run its course through his body, which could take another week or two, and as you know, Remus has bad health as it is. He needs all the sleep he can get."

"Oh." She doesn't know what else to say.

"Yeah. Oh."

"I'm… I'm sorry. I was ticked off, but I had no—"

"No, it's all right." He shakes his head, and it occurs to her that she doesn't remember ever seeing him so serious—terrible and unavoidable pun not intended. "I _was_ hitting on my best mate's girl. Or, _almost_ his girl. You know, you're still up for grabs, and I wouldn't mind doing a bit of grabbing."

That insufferable smirk reappears. And now, she's rather happy to see it.

The sky must be falling, she thinks.

"Not to mention," he says, curling one finger in a lock of hair alongside her face, "I'm fascinated by this lovely mane of yours. Like fire, it is. Like a bright, exotic bird." He tugs on it, leans in and lifts it to his nose. "Peppermint. I knew it."

As he fiddles with her hair, she watches him, almost entranced. And wonders to herself how she could be only watching him, not pulling away, not kicking him in the shins and sneering. Could—

No. It couldn't be. Certainly not. Lily Evans does not want Sirius Black smelling her hair. He's obscene. Revolting. Repulsive. Vile. Despicable. Appalling. Atrocious. Indecent.

_Oh yeah? Just like his eyes?_ retorts that small voice again. _Like his smile? _

No. Shut up.

Sirius pulls away and gazes at her.

"What's another word for indecent?" she blurts out.

He arches an eyebrow, but answers, "Abhorrent."

"Show off."

_Well, he's certainly good for your vocabulary,_ remarks the more logical side of her brain .

Shaking his head, he says, "I don't know how you put up with James."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's certainly smart, but he's good at things like Quidditch and Defense and Transfiguration. He's not book-smart, exactly. He doesn't actually _read_—"

"Oh? And you do?"

"Yes." He looks almost insulted. "Just not for class. It's a matter of principle. I read what _I_ want to read, and that includes Shakespeare and American history, thank you very much. James doesn't read at all, not really. If he weren't constantly thumbing through _Quidditch Through the Ages_, I'd think he was illiterate."

She sighs. It's true. "James hasn't got much use for books."

"It's one of the few things we differ completely on. I always say we agree on everything but poetry."

"And?"

"He hates it. I don't."

"Ah. Well, not everyone can be an intellectual. Just because—"

He halts her with a careless wave. "I'm not saying he should be. I'm just saying that a girl as smart as you, who loves school so much and learning… I'm surprised you put up with him. Not that there's anything wrong with him. He's loads of fun, as I'm sure you know."

James is fun, she thinks, but he isn't _stimulating_ company.

Oh hell.

There is only one way her mind can go when Sirius Black is associated with _stimulating._ Yes, Black's been a decidedly bad influence on her, despite her efforts to avoid him.

He is, she now realizes, like a black hole—again, corny pun not intended—that sucks you in, whether you like it or not. And she certainly does not like it.

"See? I'm right. You know I am."

"Don't be so smug, Sirius Black."

"Ha! I am right. You know, you really like saying my name. You keep saying it like that—Sirius Black. It's a nice name, isn't it? Distinguished. Poetical."

"It's inconvenient. Everything puns on Sirius or Black."

Again, he leans in. She thinks, can he get any closer?

Yes, in fact he could. But if he did, what would she do? She doesn't know. She might just freeze or faint out of sheer shock. Indeed, even now she can do little more than stand very still and hope she does not collapse under his scrutiny. His eyes, which are hammering into her own, are shimmering mercury, silver whirlpools spinning about faster and faster. Very possibly she is drowning.

Death by Sirius.

Right now, it seems so plausible.

But just as she's on the brink of saying something—gods, _anything_—his gaze wrenches away. She nearly groans in relief.

"Do you think James will ask you out on the next Hogsmeade trip?"

"Oh, I don't know. Probably not. He hasn't managed to so far."

As he looms above her, she notices that his shoulders are quite broad and well formed. And his face, even in the dim light, is remarkably handsome. His jaw is slightly square, the planes of his face angular and lean, cheekbones curving high and proud, lips sharp and clever.

It's so unfair to James, who will never be this striking. She tries not to, but she can't help but make the comparison.

James just looks terribly boyish and awkward next to Sirius.

"If he doesn't, Lily love…" She watches his expression as he pauses. Is that uncertainty? How odd. "How about we stay here? I've got some Butterbeers stowed away, and I've been working on the charms for my motorbike—I could use your expertise—and I've got a volume Shakespearean sonnets that begs a good, thorough analysis. I'm fond of number 135 myself. Have you read it? No? Then what do you say? For the sake of intellectually stimulating conversation?"

"Oh. Sure. Uh—yes. Uh—for stimulating conversation, of course." Wait. What did she just say?

He looks as if he's biting back a leer, but he smiles. It's genuine. "I'll look forward to it, Bathsheba."

She glares, jokingly, at him, but ignores the jibe. "Of course, James can't know, because he'll assume… things. He'll assume that, well… We'll have to be sneaky."

"Oh, I assure you, I'm quite good at the cloak-and-dagger routine."

"I—"

With no warning, Sirius grabs her hand and smothers her mouth. His ears almost seem to be twitching.

He mouths, "Filch," and she nods.

He hauls her up against his body and presses them both to the granite wall. A flash of green-grey, mercurial fabric.

It _is_ an invisibility cloak!

Footsteps. A lantern, mangled features, and a foul expression. "Wherever you are, I know you're out there! Oh yes, I heard you. There's no use in hiding."

Sirius' hands curl around her waist, accidentally brushing an inch of exposed flesh. Her back arcs instinctively with a keen shiver. Sirius, previously watching Filch, looks sharply down at her, studying the flush along the rise of her cheeks.

Yet—and of all that's happen tonight, this is the most shocking—he doesn't grin conceitedly.

Instead, he just stares at her. But his fingers stay where they are—pressing into her bare skin, causing ripples of warmth through her veins.

"I know you're here somewhere…" Filch peers about, aiming his light at each corner of the corridor, but sees nothing. He _humphs_. Still nothing. Shrugging and muttering to himself, he continues down the hallway, calling for Mrs. Norris.

Very long seconds pass. Lily marks the time by the tempo of Sirius' heart. Pressing her palm to fine cloth of his shirt, she grins when she feels it quicken.

Finally, Filch is out of range. Sirius slips the cloak off and releases her. She recoils from his body.

"So, I, ah, suppose we should be heading back."

"Com'on. I'll walk back with you. We're going the same way."

"Oh." She gropes for an excuse. "I have to go to the loo first!"

"I'll wait if you like," he says.

"Nah, it's all right. Just go on ahead. You know how girls are. We take forever, fixing our hair and what-not."

He tugs playfully on a chunk of her hair. "Okay. G'night, Lily love."

"Good night, Sirius Black."

He winks at her—those eyes flickering like sizzling embers in the darkness—and shrugs on the invisibility cloak. She can make out the padding of feet as she watches the empty span of corridor before her. The sounds of his footsteps fades, and when it is gone altogether, she sits down hard on the floor.

What just happened?

She just had a civil—a _fun_—conversation with Sirius Black. Not to mention, _stimulating_ in an entirely new sense of the word. His fingertips—

Her stomach trembles and whorls at the mere thought.

And she just agreed to a date with Sirius Black. Perhaps not officially, but still…

A date. With Sirius.

Oh hell. James could never know about this, even though it isn't serious or really a date at all.

She gets up from the ground and heads toward Gryffindor Tower, trying desperately not to think about the coming weekend. In her room, she dumps her bag and load of books at the foot of her bed, changes into pyjamas, and crawls under the covers. Though it's wonderfully quiet—as yet another perk, a private suite comes standard with the Head Girl badge—she stares at the ceiling for nearly an hour, turning occasionally, flipping her pillow, rearranging the covers.

Eventually, she stills, stares at the ceiling, and whispers aloud the hushed room—whispers that she is undoubtedly, inescapably attracted to Sirius Black.

Death by Sirius.

_Hmm_, purrs that sly, scandalous voice, _not so abhorrent after all.

* * *

_

**Finis **

**Allusions, citations, etc…**

-The allusion to "Benedict" refers to Benedict Arnold, the turncoat American general in the Revolutionary War.

-"Bathsheba" is a Biblical reference. She was the woman with whom King David committed adultery before he murdered her husband, Uriah.

-Shakespeare's Sonnet 135, Sirius' favorite sonnet, happens to be full of sexual innuendos based on the word Will. Go here if you're curious. I also recommend number 136; it's very similar.

-Sirius and Lily both quote Othello. The exact quotations are…

_Haply, for I am black / And have not these soft parts of conversation… _

_Even now, now, very now, an old black ram / Is topping your white ewe._

-I think I read something along the lines of "hold your thestrals" in a HP fic once—I believe it was Draco Malfoy who said it—but I can't remember the author or title of that fic. If anyone remembers, please let me know so I can give this writer credit.

Anyway, hope you liked! Please Review!


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